9/8 

1.867 


UC-NRLF 


373 


00 


r< 
v- 


9/f 


Treasure  Trove 


Forty  Famous  Poems 
by  various  authors 


Compiled  by 
WILLIAM  S.  LORD 


THE  INDEX  COMPANY 

EVANSTON,  ILL. 

1898 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 
When  I  consider  how  my  light  was  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide, — 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied? 
I  fondly  ask: — But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies:     God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts:  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best:     His  state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest: — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 

— John  Milton 


SONG  FROM  "AS  YOU  LIKE  IT." 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind! 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Altho  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the 'green  holly! 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,   most  loving  mere  folly; 

Then  heigh  ho!  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot; 

Tho'  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 
Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green  holly! 
Most  friendship  is   feigning,   most  loving  mere  folly; 

Then,  heigh  ho!  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


CONCORD  FIGHT. 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 

And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conquerer  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept, 

Down    the    dark    stream    which    seaward    creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  today  a  votive  stone  ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


A   VALENTINE. 

Choose  me  your  Valentine! 

Next,  let  us  marry! 
Love  to  the  death  will  pine 

If  we  long  tarry. 

Promise  and  keep  your  vows, 

Or  vow  you  never! 
Love's  doctrine  disallows 

Troth-breakers  ever. 

You  have  broke  promise  twice, 

Dear,  to  undo  me. 
If  you  prove  faithless  thrice, 

None  then  will  woo  ye. 

—Robert  Herrick. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  Sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  the  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened;  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  to  bright. 

And  her  hat  with  shady  brim 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim: 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said,  heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean: 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown,  and  come! 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home! 

—  Thomas  Hood. 


THE  TIGER. 

Tiger!    Tiger,    burning    bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night! 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burn'd  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And,  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?     What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee? 

Tiger!  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night! 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

—  William  Blake. 


HEBE. 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bending. 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees 
Joy's  simple  honey  cells  unbinding. 

Those  graces  were  that  seemed  grim  Fates; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood;  like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp; — 
The  beaker  fell;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup, 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter's? 

O  spendthrift  haste?  await  the  Gods; 
Their  nectar;  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience; 

Haste  scatters  on  ungrateful  sods 
The  immoral  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon  her; 

Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 

— James  Russell  Lowell. 


LOST  YOUTH. 
There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain; 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 

And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign; 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 

And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air; 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

— Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


LIGHT. 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes 

And  the  day  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 

—  Francis  William  Bourdillon. 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame! 
Quit,  oh!  quit  this  mortal  frame: 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying — 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying; 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark!  they  whisper:  angels  say, 

Sister  spirit,  come  away. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death? 

The  world  recedes;  it  disappears! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes!  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring: 
Lend,  lend  you  wings!  I  mount!  I  fly! 
Oh,  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 

Oh,  Death!  where  is  thy  sting? 

— Alexander  Pope. 


WHEN  SHE  COMES  HOME. 
When  she  come  home  again!  A  thousand  ways 
I  fashion,  to  myself,  the  tenderness 
Of  my  glad  welcome:  I  shall  tremble — yes; 
And  touch  her,  as  when  first  in  the  old  days 
I  touched  her  girlish  hand,  nor  dared  upraise 
Mine  eyes,  such  was  my  faint  heart's  sweet  distress. 
Then  silence:  and  the  perfume  of  her  dress: 
The  room  will  sway  a  little,  and  a  haze 
Cloy  eyesight — soulsight,  even — for  a  space; 
And  tears — yes;  and  the  ache  here  in  the  throat, 
To  know  that  I  so  ill  deserve  the  place 
Her  arms  make  for  me;  and  the  sobbing  note 
I  stay  with  kisses,  ere  the  tearful  face 
Again  is  hidden  in  the  old  embrace. 

— James  Whitcoinb  Riley. 


VIRTUE. 
Sweet  day!  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  tonight — 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose!  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave; 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring!  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses; 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie; 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes; — 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 

— George  Herbert. 


THE   TOYS. 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 
His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  a  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own: 
For,  on  the  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters,  and  a  red-veined  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass,  abraded  by  the  beach, 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells. 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  care- 
ful art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  thee  in  death, 
And  thou  rememberest  of  what  toyf 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly  no  less 

Than  I,  whom  thou  hast  molded  from  the  clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  thy  wrath  and  say, 
"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

— Coventry  Patmore. 


FORBEARANCE. 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse? 

Unarmed  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 

O,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine. 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


TO  ALTHEA,  FROM  PRISON. 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round  • 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crown'd, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage. 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Arigels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


— Richard  Lovelace. 


PHILIP,  MY  KING: 

Look  at  me  with  thine  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  king! 

For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities. 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand, , 

With  love's  invisible  scepter  laden. 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 

Till  thou  shall  find  thy  queen  handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  king! 

Oh,  the  day  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  king! 

When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter,  love  crowned,  and,  there 

Sittest  love  glorified!     Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 

For  we  that  love,  ah,  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  king! 

I  gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip,  my  king! 

The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  heaven  chosen  among  his  peers. 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and  fairer, 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years! 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king! 

A  wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

Philip,  my  king! 

Thou,  too,  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray. 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch  at  thy  crown,  but  march,  glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch,  till  angels  shout, 

As  thou  sitt'st  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 
"Philip,  my  king!  " 

— Dinah  Muloch  Craik, 


RECESSIONAL. 
God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 

Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget  ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 

The  captains  and  the  kings  depart — 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget  ! 

Far-called  our  navies  melt  away — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre  ! 

Judge  of  the  nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget  ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 
Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget  ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 

In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard — 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord. 

— Kudyard  Kipling. 


THE  APOLOGY. 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude, 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen; 

I  go  to  the  God  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought. 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers: 
Was  never  sacred  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thy  acres  yield 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


SONG  FROM  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 

Cannot  live  together; 

Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 

Age  is  full  of  care; 

Youth  like  summer  morn, 

Age  like  wintry  weather; 

Youth  like  summer  brave, 

Age  like  winter  bare; 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 

Age's  breath  is  short; 

Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 

Age  is  weak  and  cold; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame; 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 

Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 

O  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee— 

O  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


SONNET. 

Highway,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 

And  that  my  muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 

Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 

More  apt  than  to  a  chamber  melody, — 

Now  blessed  you  bear  onward  blessed  me 

To  her,  where  I  my  heart,  safe-left,  shall  meet; 

My  muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 

With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully; 

Be  you  still  fair,  honored  by  public  heed; 

By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot; 

Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed; 

And  that  you  know  I  envy  you  no  lot 

Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss  — 

Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss. 

— Sir  Philip  Sidnev. 


THE  CROSS  OF  SNOW. 

In  the  long,  sleepless  watches  of  the  night, 
A  gentle  face — the  face  of  one  long  dead — 
Looks  at  me  from    the    wall,    where    round    its 

head 

The  night-lamp  casts  a  halo  of  pale  light. 
Here  in  this  room  she  died;  and  soul  more  white 
Never  through  martyrdom  of  fire  was  led 
To  its  repose;  nor  can  in  books  be  read 
The  legend  of  a  life  more  benedight. 
There  is  a  mountain  in  the  distant  West 
That,  sun-defying,  in  its  deep  ravines 

Displays  a  cross  of  snow  upon  its  side. 
Such  is  the  cross  I  wear  upon  my  breast 

These  eighteen  years,   through  all  the  changing 

scenes 

And  seasons,  changeless  since  the  day  she  died. 
— Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


VISION. 

I  never  saw  a  moor, 

1  never  saw  the  sea; 
Yet  I  know  how  the  heather  looks 

And  what  a  wave  must  be. 
I  never  spoke  with  God, 

Nor  visited  in  Heaven; 
Yet  certain  am  I  of  the  spot 

As  if  the  chart  were  given. 

— Emily  Dickinson. 


THE  SWANS  OF  WILTON. 

O  how  the  swans  of  Wilton 

Twenty  abreast  did  go, 
Like  country  brides  bound  for  the  church, 

Sails  set  and  all  aglow! 
With  pouting  breast,  in  pure  white  dressed, 

Soft  gliding  in  a  row. 

Where  through  the  weed's  green  fleeces, 

The  perch  in  brazen-coat, 
Like  golden  shuttles  mermaid's  use, 

Shot  past  my  crimson  float: 
Where  swinish  carp  were  snoring  loud 

Around  the  anchored  boat. 

Adown  the  gentle  river 

The  white  swans  bore  in  sail, 
Their  full  soft  feathers  puffing  out 

Like  canvas  in  the  gale; 
And  all  the  kine  and  dappled  deer 

Stood  watching  in  the  vale. 

The  stately  swans  of  Wilton 

Strutted  and  puffed   along, 
Like  canons  in  their  full  white  gown, 

Late  for  the  even  song, 
Whom  up  the  vale  the  peevish  bell 

In  vain  has  chicled  long. 

O  how  the  Swans  of  Wilton 

Bore  down  the  radiant  stream; 
As  calm  as  holy  hermits'  lives, 

Or  a  play-tired  infant's  dream; 
Like  fairy  beds  of  last  year's  snow, 

Did  those  radiant  creatures  seem. 

—  Unknown. 


ODE  TO  AUTUMN. 

Seasons  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness! 

Close  bosom  friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines   that  round   the  thatch-eaves 

run, 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage  trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel:  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 
For  summer  has  o'erbrimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  the  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 

And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 

Or  by  a  cider  press,  with  patient  look 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are   the  songs  of  Spring?       Ay,   where  are 
they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music,  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gusts  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft, 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  the  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

— John  Keats. 


COLUMBUS. 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  gates  of  Hercules: 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:  "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo,  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'rl,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Why  say,  'Sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on.'  " 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'rl,  say, 

If  we  wight  not  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

'Sail  on,  sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on.'  ' 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said: 
"Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone; 
Now  speak,  brave  Adm'rl;  speak  and  say." 

He  said:    "Sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

They  sailed.     They  sailed.     Then  spoke  the  mate: 

"This  mad  sea  shows  its  teeth  tonight. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth  as  if  to  bite; 
Brave  Adm'rl,  say  but  one  good  word. 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  as  a  leaping  sword: 

"Sail  on,  sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.     Oh,  the  night 
Of  all  dark  nights.      And  then  a  speck — 

A  light:  a  light:  a  light:  a  light: 
It  grew:  a  starlit  flag  unfurled: 

It  grew  to  be  time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  greatest  lesson,  "On  and  on." 

— Jon  q  u  in  Miller. 


FROM  STANZAS  ON  FREEDOM. 

Is  true  freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt? 
No;  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free. 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 

For  the  fallen  and  the  weak. 

They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 

Hatred,  scoffing  and  abuse 

Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 

From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think. 

They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 

In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


FROM  VOLUNTARIES. 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 

Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 
Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 

To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight. — 
Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games, 

Foresake  their  comrades  gay, 
And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames 

For  famine,  toil  and  fray? 
Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 

Speed  nimbler  messages, 
That  waft  the  breath  of  grace  divine 

To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease. 
So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  duty  whispers  low,    Thou  must, 

The  youlh  replies,   I  can. 

— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


TO  DAFFODILS. 

Faire  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon: 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noone. 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song; 

And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 
Will  goe  with  you  along! 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
.  As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  doe,  and  drie 

Away, 

Like  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearles  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  againe. 

— Robert  Herrick. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparation,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament. 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 

Like  twilight,  too,  her  dusky  hair, 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn, 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn  ; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman,  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good, 

For  human  nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene, 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  being,  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort;  and  command. 
And  yet  a  spirit,  still  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


THE  ORGAN. 

It  is  no  harmony  of  human  making, 

Though  men  have  built  those  pipes  of  burnished 

gold 
Their  music  out  of  nature's  heart  awaking, 

Forever  new,  forever  is  of  old. 

Man  makes  not — only  finds — all  earthly  beauty, 
Catching  a  thread  of  sunshine  here  and  there, 

Some  shining  pebble  in  the  path  of  duty, 
Some  echo  of  the  songs  that  flood  the  air. 

That  prelude  is  a  wind  among  the  willows 
Rising  until  it  meets  the  torrents  roar; 

Now  a  wild  ocean,  beating  his  great  billows, 
Among  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  shore. 

It  is  the  voice  of  some  vast  people  pleading 

For  justice,  from  an  ancient  shame  and   wrong; 

The  tramp  of  God's  avenging  armies,  treading 
With  shouted  thunders  of  triumphant  song. 

O,  soul  that  sittest  chanting  dreary  dirges, 
Could'st  thou  but  rise  on  some  divine  desire, 

As  those  deep  chords  upon  the  swelling  surges 
Bear  up  the  wavering  voices  of  the  choir! 

But  ever  lurking  in  the  heart  there  lingers 
The  trouble  of  a  false  and  jarring  tone, 

As  some  great  organ  which  unskillful  fingers 
Vex  into  discords  when  the  master's  gone. 

—  Unknown. 


IDENTITY. 
Somewhere — in  desolate,  wind  swept  space. 

In  Twilight- land — in  No-man's-land — 
Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 

And  bade  each  other  stand. 

'And  who  are  you?"  cried  one  a-gape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
'I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 
"I  only  died  last  night!" 

—  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


BUGLE  SONG. 
The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going; 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

Which  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

— Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 


NIGHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  Western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  Eastern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear; 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star  inwrought! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day! 
Kiss  him  until  he  be  wearied  out; 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand! 

Come,  long  sought! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree; 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"Wouldst  thou  me?" 
Thy  sweet  child,  Sleep  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee — 
"Shall  I  nestle  by  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me?"     And  I  replied — 
No!  not  thee. 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon! 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night! 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight! 

Come  soon,  soon! 

— Percy  By s she  Shelley. 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout 

And  noise  and  humming. 
They've  hushed  the  minster  bell! 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell; 

She's  coming,  she's  coming! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast; 
She  comes,  she's  here,  she's  past! 

May  heaven  go  with  her! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 

—  William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


DAFFODILS. 
I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vale  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  the  bay; 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprighty  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 

Mysterious  Night,  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,  from  divine  report,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  Frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  Light  and  Blue? 

Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  ray  of  the  great  setting  Flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven,  came. 

And  lo!  Creation  widened  on  Man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun!  or  who  could  find 

Whilst  flower,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  Orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind! 

Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife? 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive  wherefore  not  Life. 

— Joseph  Blanco   White. 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 
This   is   the   ship   of   pearl,    which,    poets   feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purple  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to   sun    their   streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  arch-way  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  my  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings: — • 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low  vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thy  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 

— Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee 

Friend  of  my  better  days, 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven, 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Where  weal  and  woe  were  thine. 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

— Fits-  Greene  Halleck. 


SONNET. 

This  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 
Little  we  see  of  nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away, — a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, — 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  upgathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers, — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God!     I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn: 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

—  Will ia  in  Wordsworth . 


CROSSING  THE  BAR. 
Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And    may    there    be    no    moaning   of   the  bar 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from    out    the    boundless 
deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark: 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  time  and 

place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

— Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 


5 '34 1 2 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


